


In Every Lifetime

by amclove



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: 3rd person (not 1st), Canon Divergence, Happy Ending, M/M, Reincarnation, Soulmates, alcoholism tw, drug abuse tw, suicide TW, thoughts of suicide tw
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-10
Updated: 2019-11-10
Packaged: 2021-01-26 16:03:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21376786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amclove/pseuds/amclove
Summary: For the sake of this story we’ll say that, while their names may change, throughout time these boys stay roughly the same at heart, and so their problems begin.
Relationships: Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh
Comments: 6
Kudos: 20





	In Every Lifetime

Magicians are a pretty fucked up bunch. I highly doubt that whoever may have stumbled across this would be particularly astonished to hear that simple truth. What makes the Magicians all the more fascinating, however, is that they either become strong enough to become all but immortal, or fuck up enough that they relive their life on a loop. (Of course they never know that they are reincarnated. We’re not that cruel.) While that might sound too much like the fate of a spirit with work left to be done, it is in fact one that a Magician could face if they have a particularly shitty proclivity in one aspect or another of their existence. Also known as: they have ‘work left to be done.’

For Quentin Coldwater and Eliot Waugh, theirs was one another, and themselves.

Here we’ll pause to describe a bit about each man. Quentin Theodore Coldwater was probably nothing special, in all honesty. He had simple hair that was such a dirty blond as to appear more brown than anything else, eyes to match, and an awkward disposition that left him on the outside looking in. The only reason we hesitate to say he was totally bland is his smile. It shone on his face like he was surprised every single time it was provoked to appear there; the twitch of his lips when they quirked up was enough to send a rush of satisfaction to anyone lucky enough to witness its happening. To be the person that brought a grin to Quentin’s face, to break him from his shell of cliché self-doubt and general confusion… It meant you were someone important.

Also to his credit, Quentin was a genuinely good-hearted boy. He could talk endlessly about the subjects he adored, and he made it obvious that he adored them, his passion seeping through his words and illuminating his being from the inside out.

He had charisma when he had no use for it; eloquence when one least expected it and he with no knowledge to store it away for another time; and was reluctant to love and receive love only because he did so with his whole being and it took everything he had to keep from losing himself in it.

It’s quite possible that he was something special, after all.

Now, Eliot Waugh was a different story. He was born and bred in Indiana, a smelly, hick farm-town known as Whiteland—horribly fitting when one took into consideration the concentrated racism and homophobia that tainted the entire place—and from the day he grew old enough to know the difference, every fibre of his body shook vehemently with the urgent need to escape. Eliot was regularly bullied for being different: possessing an affinity for classically feminine clothing and fashion in general—Newsflash, assholes, overalls were hideous the whole time—; enjoying the look of men’s traps and lats far more than the breasts of women; openly singing along to the music of _ Les Misérables _ or Chrissie Hynde with a voice he thought to be rather good, actually. It was all a painfully simple equation for disaster in a town as small-minded as the one in which he lived, and with a homophobic father on top of it all to shove him down and make him feel like a piece of garbage on the daily, Eliot couldn’t be blamed for wanting to get out. When he did, and when he embraced himself for who he was, it became clear that everyone in Indiana had been missing out.

Eliot’s reinvention of his identity revealed that he had hazel eyes that sometimes looked green and positively ethereal under sunlight, and gentle black corkscrews that all the girls and boys swooned over in New York; a biting wit that could slice a person’s head clean off; and a lifetime supply of love to give.

He was lean and tall—friends and strangers alike would find that the word _ regal _ popped into their head upon spotting Eliot, even if they had never before used such a word—and had grown into exuding the air of someone that was better than most and knew it. It was an act, mostly, but sometimes he forgot about that and let the tidal wave of his new life distract from the pain of his past.

Maybe he couldn’t, though. Not always.

For the sake of this story we’ll say that, while their names may change, throughout time these boys stay roughly the same at heart, and so their problems begin.

* * *

The first time they met, 22 years had passed in the 20th century.

Women had recently won the right to vote, another white man was President, and America was facing life after the Great War. Elijah Bloom owned a restaurant in the East Village of New York City that was home to respectable business-men galore by day, persecuted and thereby hidden homosexuals by night.

Elijah provided a public service, honestly; his club was the best of the best, and it allowed people just like him to have an enjoyable evening, to let loose for a few hours. Dry America was tragic in the worst way, but Eli made do. It helped that he had magic up his sleeve to keep himself and his business under the radar, of course, but he did sometimes wish—at his weakest moments—that he didn’t have to hide his success on top of his pre-existing deep, dark secret, which was of course his preference for men.

Elijah’s buddy, Benjamin, worked at the bar and helped to keep it as clean as humanly possible; the last thing Elijah could stand was filth. He ran a decent establishment and he liked to think that people didn’t just come for the good company, but because he made an obvious effort to be top-notch and was considered to be so by those in the circle. It was a Wednesday night, as he’d found that suspicious, hard-ass cops were less likely to break up a party if it were to occur on a weekday. It was because of this that Elijah liked to joke ‘only ho-hum heterosexuals party on a weekend,’ which always roused a laugh from his few friends. Friends, needless to say, translated to frequent patrons.

As we mentioned before, it was mid-week and rounding on toward eleven. Dim lights all around, the waft of smoke strong enough to choke a man. Perfection. Eli was making his way around the joint to say hello or have a quick laugh with those he knew or wished to meet, like he did very nearly every night. He had a knack for deciphering who was worth his time, who he would avoid at all costs, who would be good in bed, etcetera. It was as he was gliding through the club that his gaze fell upon a young man nearest the bar-top. His hair was on the longer side, just shy of being unfortunate, and he was looking around himself like he wasn’t sure what the hell he was doing here.

Elijah came to a stop beside him, tapped his left shoulder, and then swung over to his right to ask, “Are you lost?” The boy’s eyes were wide, taken aback by the whiplash, as though he’d thought himself to be invisible and therefore unapproachable. But here someone was, talking to him, and he clearly was at a loss as to what to say.

“I’m—well, no, I’m—” He took in a small gulp of air. This ‘deer in headlights’ act was something else. “I’m not really sure, actually.”

“Unless your sole attraction is to women, I can’t say this isn’t the place for you. So, is it?”

“Is it what?”

Eli couldn’t help his eye-roll at the kid’s (what seemed to be) permanently startled gaze. “Are you attracted to women?”

“Yes. That’s the problem. I mean—I like both. Men and women.” He turned red, the bugger, and this time Elijah smiled.

“I’ve heard that before,” he told the boy. “You aren’t an alien species, I promise you. What’s your name?”

“Christopher.”

“Christopher. Well, I’m Elijah. Eli, if I like you. I own this place.”

If this were any other story, this encounter would have gone on to be the beginning of an epic love-story, a passionate relationship that everyone wants but probably never gets. But these two didn’t get it either. The time in which they existed mixed with Christopher’s debilitating fear of those he loves inevitably leaving him knocked back with a shot of Elijah’s innate inability to settle down with one person (partly for the same reason as Christopher) ultimately ended with their separation.

Rather than a love-story, it was the beginning of a sadder cycle. Christopher, who was in fact an (untapped) Magician much like Elijah, married a woman named Candice and had seven kids before he drank himself to death in 1947, a couple years after getting home from yet another war that ended with his broken mind. Elijah died alone and without a penny to his name, the Depression having left him flat.

Let’s move on.

* * *

1985.

Carter Forman wasn’t very happy. Granted, he had a constant cloud of unease hanging over his head and his father was convinced that his habit of staying holed up in bed was because of laziness rather than a serious, diagnosable problem. But all Carter could say was that he was unhappy, all the time, and wanted to escape his own goddamn brain, his body, his life.

He lived in Brooklyn, and wondered every time he watched the news what the actual fuck he was doing in New York. All he saw was death, and all he felt was fake. Two friends of his had died within the past year from what had been recently coined the Acquired Immune Deficiency Syndrome, and he knew he’d only remained clean thus far because he rarely had sex with anyone and was also still in deep denial that he wanted to kiss boys too, much less have sex with one. To reiterate: he felt fake. And ungrateful, almost, maybe undeserving. At least the true L.G.B. community was out there living their truth. Even if they all died for it, at least they’d done that. And the others that lived on, fighting for rights and all that shit. Carter fought too, but as a vaguely hetero ally. Bullshit.

He was at a diner around the corner from his shitty apartment when a group of five came in. Two women, three men. Carter noticed that the girls’ hands were woven firmly together, and he tried not to stare. He had gay girlfriends but anytime he saw anyone outside his group that was so obviously Not Straight, it was like his entire body froze up. Carter was still trying to mind his own sorry business when the owner of the diner kissed the tallest man’s cheek. He accepted the gesture with ease, a grin on his pretty lips.

“Joyce,” he almost purred. “You’re too sweet to me.” Joyce, an older woman that Carter had somehow failed to notice wore a Pride flag pin on her apron, lightly whacked the man with her dishrag and told him to take a seat anywhere they liked.

“We need to make _ noise_,” one man in the group said, clearly continuing a conversation.

“Of course we do, Jonathan. But I also know that tact does, in fact, exist.”

“Evan…”

The man, Evan as it were, sighed. “No one takes down a homophobic society by throwing all their cards out into the open. Yes?” Evan looked around at his gaggle of mates. “We need to be wise. Or have you forgotten what that means in your panic?”

“He’s just anxious,” the girl piped in, accompanied by an agreeing nod from her girlfriend.

“Aren’t we all?” Evan retorted. He put his fingers to his temple momentarily. “I’m starving, to boot. Joyce, the usual? And you guys need to _ trust me_.” He again searched the three faces that surrounded him. “Have I ever let you down?”

“Not yet,” Jonathan muttered.

“Wouldn’t hold your breath, if I were you,” Evan said, more confident than harsh. It even managed to sound reassuring, to Carter’s surprise. This guy was something else. He was gorgeous, for one thing, with dark hair tied against the back of his neck with a band, circular spectacles, and a jawline for days. Jesus. As if he could feel Carter’s oh-so-subtle gaze on him, Evan glanced past his friends’ heads to catch Carter’s eye. His mouth turned up in the slightest, and Carter nearly smiled in return, but once he realised what he was doing he quickly refocused his attention to his plate and tried to keep it there. He was such a pussy. Fuck.

He heard Evan murmur something to the others, but ignored it. He poked relentlessly at the sopping pancakes on his plate until it became too obvious that Evan was stood right in front of him.

“I don’t mean to be a nosy dick, but you can look.”

“I’m sorry?” Carter was able to ask.

“You were looking my way,” Evan hinted. His voice was lower, as to not attract attention. “It isn’t weird, and I certainly don’t mind.”

“I wasn’t—I didn’t notice you until just now, so I—” Carter returned his eyes to his plate. “I don’t even know what you’re talking about.” A beat passed. “Could I eat in peace, maybe?”

Evan studied Carter’s face before nodding once and returning to his table. The latter didn’t look up again until he was sure Evan and his friends had left. What the actual fuck was wrong with Carter Forman?

* * *

2016.

“Quentin Coldwater?”

So he wasn’t the worst-looking prospective student that had stumbled through here today. Eliot had to admit that he may have been one of the better ones, in fact, and in acknowledging this even deigned to give the boy his name, Eliot Waugh. And his? Quentin Coldwater. Wow.

And that confused look on his face; absolutely hilarious. He all but dragged him across campus and shoved his ass into the testing center, a good feeling already settling into his chest that this kid would make it into Brakebills.

“He’s not _ that _ cute.” Clearly Margo wasn’t seeing what Eliot was seeing, but it didn’t matter. There was something about him that Eliot couldn’t quite shake. There was something there… Maybe this boy would be the one to change things around here, and within Eliot. That was a thought.

And despite everything, the gears in Eliot that had been at a standstill for what feels like a century begin to crank when Quentin kisses him on that stupid mosaic. They’re just on the good side of tipsy but Eliot knows without a doubt that he’d want Quentin in any state of mind, anytime, anywhere, and this certainty persists even once they’ve woken up from the paradisaical interlude their lives had taken. Eliot can’t want anyone the way he wants Quentin and he doesn’t give a damn.

Quentin is confused, and he is very much himself, but when it comes down to it he feels the same, and that in itself is an immeasurable feat. They’ve fought countless battles for and with one another; made admissions and seen the parts of each other that they’d rather drown than tell another soul; sobbed in the quiet of their own beds thinking that he couldn’t love me, he couldn’t ever want me when I’m this broken, not quite realising that they couldn’t be further from the truth. So by the end, yeah, Quentin can say with his heart breaking into bleeding shards that he loves Eliot. There aren’t words for it; he just loves him, wholly, his best friend, husband, brother, lover, whatever the fuck have you. Eliot loves him as well, et al.

But it still wasn’t enough. How the hell wasn’t it enough, this time?

The Fool, one of the Kings of Fillory, Curly Q, the Crushable Little Field Mouse—Quentin has indeed been crushed. He’s _ dead_. He is dead, the funeral pyre is still smoking, and Eliot is still wishing that it had been him instead. He still feels the weight of the words he hadn’t said like a 100 pound headstone on his lungs; the lump in his throat is keeping the air from reaching them and he doesn’t know… He just doesn’t know if it matters.

Wanting to talk to and touch a man he no longer can is the itch under Eliot’s skin that he can’t scratch, and it’s making him want to tear his skin off.

Margo is the sole reason he makes it. He is more than well aware that, without her steadfast devotion to seeing him through Quentin’s loss, Eliot would have made a nifty cocktail of some pills or another and followed in Quentin’s footsteps.

I would like to say that Eliot lives, and in doing so goes on to meet someone new, have a few kids. He knows that’s what he should do, because that’s what Quentin is probably yelling at him to do from wherever the fuck he is right now. Though that’s a little self-important, isn’t it, to think that Quentin would spend his afterlife bothering with Eliot’s issues? Whatever. To the point, I again would _ like _to say that Eliot listens to ‘Quentin,’ or the version of Quentin that he can guess what he’d say, and decides to move on. But he doesn’t. He does live, that’s true, but Eliot can’t shake the feeling that, instead of moving forward, since Quentin’s death he’s only been in one fixed spot. The grief of what was taken doesn’t fade so much as it does blend into the mosaic of Eliot’s life, the one that had previously been so utterly ardent with the shades of Quentin, and it colors everything to the point where Eliot doesn’t want to look at the patterns at all, even the ones he’d known to be beautiful.

* * *

Eliot wakes up in bed. He knows it’s his bed in Fillory, in particular, because it’s got the quilt on it that he had made himself, the yarns of brilliant blues and deep greens woven together seamlessly. He’d taken great pride in completing this as a gift for Quentin, who had loved the blanket to bits. From that birthday forward, it had stayed on their bed, always, a reminder of their devotion and love for one another, a beautiful thing made in the mess that had become their stories. He pushes to his elbows and clutches the blanket in his hands, the texture of it so familiar it’s like he had been here just yesterday instead of a literal lifetime or two ago, and the smell of the cottage is the same too. The spices and the fruits—peaches and plums, motherfucker.

He swings his feet onto the wooden floor, and even that’s exactly as he remembers, and he slowly makes for the door that leads outside. He catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror, where he can see that he’s no longer an almost 95-year-old man, but one in his early twenties. It’s enough to make Eliot stagger back, to see the face so tangibly that he’d never stopped seeing in his mind in reference to himself, that metaphorical death which joined his younger self with Quentin. He hears the clear whistle of a tune from outside and Eliot remembers why he’d gotten up to begin with. He takes a harsh breath in and opens the door to see Quentin stretched out on the earth where Eliot is certain the mosaic had been. It’s grass now, green and fresh, and the air is punched from Eliot’s body. At the sound, Quentin tilts his head back to look at Eliot, and his smile is blinding as he leaps to his feet and is embracing Eliot in a flash.

“I was scared you wouldn’t show up here like I did,” Quentin says all in a rush, and then releases Eliot with a sheepish look on his youthful face. “Sorry. I probably shouldn’t… I don’t know if—”

“You fucking idiot,” Eliot snaps, but it’s in contrast to his grabbing Quentin against his chest and firmly holding him there, like if he loosens even a bit, he’ll disappear again. “You complete… You…”

“Yeah,” Quentin says. His hand is on Eliot’s shoulder, and he’s looking up at him with his baleful eyes. Eliot wants to die all over again, from joy. “I… goofed up. I don’t think I can say sorry, cuz it wouldn’t cover what I put everyone through.” Quentin’s hand tentatively finds the back of Eliot’s neck, with no purpose other than to feel it real beneath his fingers and keep him close. “Especially you. _ Especially _you.”

“I can ream you for all that later,” Eliot promises. “And I will, because _ Jesus_, Q.” He inhales carefully. “But I love you. I waited some odd 60 years to tell you and I love you. I always have. Since the day we met.”

A smile pulls at Quentin’s lips. “Hey.”

“Hey.”

He kisses Eliot, just as he had on the first anniversary of their embarking on the quest to end all quests, and it’s been forever since they’ve done this and it feels just as it always had; it’s two best friends being the best versions of themselves, wanting nothing more than what’s right in front of them and what lies ahead with and because of him.

“I love you, too,” Quentin says, eyes clear and focused on Eliot’s, as if there could be another answer, or ever had been. “And I’ve missed you like crazy.”

“So let’s catch up.”

End.

**Author's Note:**

> So I still haven't watched the finale of season 4. I heard what happened that night from tumblr, cried, and have to this day months later refused to watch it and I never will. Quentin deserved better, Eliot deserved better, and it's taken me this long to come back to this fic and finish it for the fandom. Thanks, everyone. I genuinely hope this was worth your time.  
Note: In 1985, I said LGB and not LGBT because that's what was used most commonly at that time. I adore my trans brothers and sisters, 100%.


End file.
